We Manage the Darkness
by handmedownrobes
Summary: How do you move on when everything you've known is ripped away from you? How do you do it alone? Suddenly Stiles realizes. It hits him, just like that. You don't.


A/N: Unedited, so it's rough. My apologies... an idea came into my head and I just had to go with it. This is based on a graphic I saw on tumblr about Derek going to rehab... they don't quite make it there, but the budding drug addiction makes an appearance in the prequel I'm working on, don't you worry. ;) Also, the title is a quote from The Hunger Games. Please don't sue. Otherwise, enjoy!

_We Manage the Darkness_

The first time they have sex, it's in the back of Stiles' jeep. It's hot and loud and they can both hear the tires squeal quietly with each movement they make. It doesn't feel like sparks or fireworks, like they write about in books. Stiles thinks that the best things happen in the dark, the quietly warm spots where time becomes meaningless and a simple brush of skin can leave you shivering._The Camaro is too small for this_, Stiles thinks somewhere between the first kiss and the time their zippers are both undone._Thank god he didn't drive._ When it's over and they're both panting in a tangled heap in the back seat, he wonders briefly if that was what Derek had in mind when he asked.

Sometimes, usually when he's on his way home from school, he looks in the rear view mirror and has to choke down a smile. Sometimes, just as he's about to fade into sleep, he bunches up his legs and feels leather underneath them. The darkness is so close, he can imagine it perfectly. The way it smelled, the way it felt, how Derek tasted on his tongue.

That is the last time he sees Derek for a while. Somehow, it seems fitting. Stiles thinks that Derek needs the mystery, needs to feel in control of who sees him and who doesn't. It's probably why he's always sneaking around in shadows (which is an odd habit, but Derek seems permanently smudged into darkness, so maybe it's the most comforting place to be). Derek doesn't answer his calls, and whenever Stiles knocks he gets no response. Eventually he stops knocking.

Knowing the reason why doesn't make it hurt any less, though. So when Derek shows up in his room unannounced after school one day, Stiles is actually furious enough to kick him out.

"Just listen to me," Derek says immediately, with not enough _please_ in his voice to be very convincing.

"How about no," Stiles glares. He's trying to look anywhere Derek isn't, but it's not an easy task. Suddenly the space in his room has condensed, or perhaps Derek has just expanded, and his eyes find themselves rolling back to where Derek stands, just between his dresser and the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, almost on their own.

The room has definitely condensed, Stiles thinks, because Derek looks so much... smaller than he used to. Like he's not as solid as he was before. He's _faded_, somehow, like smoke.

Stiles shakes his head, unsure if he's still saying "no" or if he's trying to shake the thoughts out through his ears. He walks to the door, his eyes focused on the stains in his carpet, and opens it, gesturing.

"You seem to have your disappearing act pretty perfected, so why don't you try it again," he motions, looking straight into the sunlight glaring from behind his window. When he looks like this, he can only see Derek out of the corner of his eye.

"Stiles, would you just fucking _look_ at me?" he demands, but there's something desperate under the surface. Desperation. Stiles could get used to that sound.

"No can do, kiddo. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," he says blithely. Some part of him wants to laugh, laugh at his own stupidity and his bad jokes and the idea that someone like Derek Hale would stick around for anyone. Or maybe laugh at himself for at one point thinking that person could be him.

It's not that Stiles isn't a catch, because hey, he's kind of a babe. It's just that things like that don't _happen_ to him. His luck is average, erring slightly on the side of tragic. He walks the line, man. Kind of like Johnny Cash.

But Derek's luck is an actual catastrophe, and this whole thing is just a car crash waiting to happen. Complete with explosions and death.

If he could have his way, Stiles would slam the door before Derek could think to escape and hold onto him tightly until the pressure forced the demons out from underneath Derek's skin. But things like that don't happen to him, and whatever this is, it's more than likely it'll end up burning them both down.

So Stiles stares into the sun until his eyes sting and water, and eventually he hears a soft sigh, sees the slightest head shake, and feels footsteps as Derek leaves. If the pain in his chest tells him he has disappointed himself somehow, well, that's what alcohol is for.

The next time Stiles sees Derek, he's choking down vomit and his head is spinning. He's always hated hospitals; there's nothing to do in them, his father has seen the inside of too many of them, everyone smells weird, and, worst of all, everything is so goddamn _bright_. White walls, white ceilings, white fluorescent lights, white gowns, white jackets – if he stays there long enough he feels like he's going colorblind. It only got worse after his mom died.

The most unbearable part of cancer is the waiting. Days blur into months, which blur into years, and the panic runs under the surface like a current, sweeping everything up in its path. For two years his heart beat like a hummingbird's wings in his chest. He got used to the head rush, the lack of sleep, the jitters – but he never got used to the hospital. Seeing his mom in that bed, looking like just a bag of bones dripping in rags – It was like she'd stopped being _human_. Like she'd turned into a corpse that breathed and spoke like his mother, but wasn't. It was like she was already gone.

So it takes him a few minutes to compose himself outside of Derek's door.

" _You got this, Stiles_," he mutters, pacing. " _It's nothing, just a room. Four walls. Ugly patterned chairs. No big deal. You're a big boy; you can take on some cheesy furniture, no problem._" He sighs, trying to slow his own heart, and takes a gulp of air.

He pushes the door open –

And nearly breaks down right there. He feels like sobbing, right there in the middle of the doorway. He's actually a little _embarrassed_ by it, but that's soon shoved out of the way by everything else.

They called him because they had no one else to call. Because Derek was wandering the streets completely naked, apparently on some kind of drug binge, and screaming Stiles' name. The woman on the phone makes it sound almost like a compliment. Stiles thinks middle aged women read too much Twilight crap.

But this, this is worse than his mom ever looked. And she had _cancer_.

He looks like he's already dead. And he's staring at Stiles with eyes so dark they're nearly black. His skin is the color of the sheets, and he looks almost as small as his mom did, when she died. It's too much. Stiles can feel the panic attack brewing, bubbling up under the surface. He tries to hold it down, because the look on Derek's face is something close to despair and _neither of us need this right now_, he tells himself. He tries to clutch his sides without Derek noticing, but of course he does. Subtlety has never been Stiles' style.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do.

"Well, don't you look pretty," he grinds out. It's not his best delivery, and his voice wavers a little, but Derek seems to appreciate it, judging by the slight upturn in the corner of his mouth.

"I... feel... pretty," he wheezes, each word sounding like it clawed through his throat to get out.

Stiles smothers his laugh/sob in his hand, willing the wetness in his general eye vicinity to evaporate quickly.

"You always look pretty," he sighs, immediately wishing it came out less... sad. He's not upset. He's dealing with it like a _man_, stiff upper lip and all. And maybe a lot of whiskey.

He clears his throat. "Maybe I should... um... I mean, do you want to, uh, talk about it?" Stiles considers coming closer, mainly because the physical distance between them is becoming more disconcerting than the emotional distance, but also because Derek seems to be having trouble speaking, and reading lips has never been a strong point for him.

Stiles ends up hovering near Derek's elbow, and resigning himself to sitting in one of the disgusting hospital chairs. Honestly, who decided that hot pink and puke green went well together? Orange and blue would've been much better. Like the Mets.

_Stop thinking about baseball_, he groans._Focus_. "So what happened? Bad trip? Decided food was beneath you? You're not feeling... carnivorous urges, are you?" There's a faint edge of panic in Stiles' voice – the cannibal attacks on the news recently had something to do with drugs. Bath salts, he thinks. Stiles scrutinizes Derek for a moment, and nope, bath salts seem unlikely, but you never really know.

He comes up with a quick exit plan, in case Derek tries to go for his face. He _needs_ that.

Derek snorts softly, rolling his eyes. "Re-lax. I'm not... gonna..._eat_ you," he pants.

Stiles tries to pretend like he isn't actually relieved by this. He tells himself it's just because Derek was found screaming his name, and the last thing he needs is a hungry cannibal on his tail. Especially one that he used to be in l–

Ahem. So, anyway, "Well that's a load off," he says quickly, laughing halfheartedly. "So what was it? Really."

Derek just stares at him. He just..._stares_. He looks long enough for it to be uncomfortable. Derek's just looking at him like Stiles should already know the answer, and Derek's just waiting for him to figure it out. It's a little terrifying at first, in a he's-trying-to-peer-into-my-soul kind of way, but once Stiles gets past that, he begins to stare back. He sees Derek's tired eyes, too old to sit in such a young face. He sees the exhaustion etched into the lines of his eyebrows and lips. How do you move on when everything you've known is ripped away from you? How do you do it alone?

Suddenly Stiles realizes. It hits him, just like that. You don't. He knows what it's like to feel like your life is careening out of your control. Knows what it's like when someone you've touched every day of your life becomes just a ghost in your mind. Knows what it's like to feel like a stranger in the one place you've always been.

Stiles hated the waiting when his mom died; it felt like they were all sitting there, just counting the minutes until she'd finally croak. But suddenly he imagines what it would've been like, to get up in the morning, pour yourself a bowl of cereal, maybe say goodbye to your dad on the way out, slip in at the last moment to chemistry class, and just go through the motions. A completely normal day. And then to go home to a fire, go home to everyone you loved – dead. Just like that.

Stiles shivers, and for the first time he feels almost _grateful –_ for the time he had, for the fact that his life has one ghost, instead of two. He's grateful for the warning, the slow build, even the panic attacks. His dad is a fucking _sheriff_ – any day can be the day when he comes back to an empty house. He imagines being alone – totally alone – and swallows hard. He clenches his shaking hands, and looks to Derek.

He clenches his jaw like he can read the realization on Stiles' face, and Stiles breaks eye contact. It doesn't feel like something words can communicate. He stands up suddenly, and walks over to close the door. He turns to go back, but the light switch catches his eye. He can't help the smile that comes, and he looks over to Derek, wondering if he's thinking the same thing.

He thinks he sees a warmth in Derek's eyes. He switches off the light and walks back.

"Move over," he whispers. There's a half-hearted rustle of sheets, and it leaves Stiles with about three inches of room, but it's enough. He wiggles under the sheets, pushing Derek's body over just a little.

They lay there, side by side in the dark, until their breaths match. Stiles' fingers find Derek's under the sheets, and that's how they stay for a long time.


End file.
